The First Time

Okay so we all know that I cut. Its a sick and disgusting addiction that I would never wish upon anyone. But I feel the need to tel you all about how my addiction came to be.
I was thirteen years old. It was the summer before 8th grade. I was at home just hanging out in my room when I got a phone call. It was my friend from next door. We talked for awhile mostly about nothing when she said those four little words that I should've taken as a sign.
"We need to talk."
My friend told me that she had been thinking about our friendship alot lately. She told me that she thought it would be best if we were no longer friends. She told me I was mean and embarrassed her when we were around her other friends. I was in such a state of shock that all I could do was tell her that I understood and I hung up the phone.
I spent the rest of July watching her and her new friends hangout in her front yard. I watched them walk past my house on their way to the pool. They always ignored me and acted as if I wasnt even there. I spent my days at home watching T.V or reading and I cried myself to sleep most nights. I had so much pain inside and all I wanted to do was let it out. I just didnt know how.I wasnt much of a screamer and I was too chicken to tell my ex-friend how much she had hurt me so I did the next best thing.
I dont remember where I had gotten the idea or where I had even heard about cutting but I knew that it would help. I remember I was wearing a blue tank top and jean shorts. I remember my mind going numb as I walked to the kitchen. I remember rummaging through the drawers until I found the perfect knife. It was a pearing knife one I often used for peeling apples. I remember the way it glistened in the sun that was shining through my kitchen windows. I remember the way it felt in my hand. Its cool grey handle fit perfectly in my palm. After grabbing the knife I walked to my room and shut the door. I sat on my bed and rolled my shorts up one..two...three times until a nice amount of upper thigh was showing. I remember digging that tiny pearing knife into my thigh and slowly dragging it across my skin in four perfect little rows.
I remember watching that beautiful crimson blood drop onto my hard wood floor with a faint plopping sound. I remember all my anger and pain going directly to that cut and seeping out with the rest of my blood. I remember how good I felt- how powerful. I remember feeling in control. But mostly I remember thinking that I never wanted to stop. And I havent been able to since.
I've been cutting almost everyday for four years now. My right thigh is barely recognizeable. The good and powerful feeling comes back everytime I cut. Something about watching my blood seep out of me makes me feel alive. I dont always feel better after cutting but its nice to know that when I cut the only person that is hurting me -is me. I know I'm sick and that I have an addiction- I know! But you have to understand that after four years- cutting isnt just a thing that makes me feel better for five minutes. It something that I'm emotionally and mentally addicted to. I plan on getting help- someday. But right now I still have things that burden me and it seems that the only way to quite the voices that tell me to just give up is by cutting. I would love to not feel the need or the desire to cut but for now its there weighing on me. Dragging behind me like a lowly servant.